Stones in the Road (22 page)

“Really?”

“Had himself a good scare.”

“I thought he was a big fan of the red states.”

“Not so much, I’m thinking. Not after the way your papaw sat there and shot off his gun at the kitchen table. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wet his pants over that. And that’s another story my mom can’t wait to tell people.”

“She’s going to make us sound like a bunch of hillbillies.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

I walked slowly to the bathroom door, resting my good hand on the IV stand and pulling it along.

“Can you manage on your own?”

“You gonna hold my pecker for me?”

“If you want me to.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course I would.”

“I’m sorry about all of this, Jack. I really am.”

“Sorry about what?”

“The tornado.”

“You’re sorry about a tornado?”

“I’m sorry about your parents. We should have been more careful, paid more attention to the tornado watch. Mama tries to take care of everything at the house, but Bill and I should have checked the shelter. We knew there was a watch going on. We just didn’t think about it. We had our kids there, and guests too, and we didn’t think to check. And that’s not cool at all.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Tell your parents I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

I went into the bathroom, looked at my face in the mirror. I was banged up, had two black eyes, a row of stitches running across my forehead. My left cheek was heavily bruised but also had an orangish tint from some cream they had put on it.

Like Mary said, I looked like shit.

I sat on the stool and cried.

“T
HEY
’
RE
COMING
,”
Jackson said, hanging up his phone.

It was just after ten in the morning.

He helped me get out of bed again, and I walked to the door of my room and stood just outside, thinking Noah would be less traumatized if he saw me standing up and looking reasonably alive. All things considered, I felt good. My ribs throbbed with a pain that was both dull and sharp somehow. My face hurt. The broken bones in my arm ached. But I was very much alive and anxious to see my boy—anxious to hold him, kiss him, do some loving on him to let him know everything was all right.

I heard their footsteps down the hall as they turned the corner and emerged into my hallway.

“Daddy!” Noah exclaimed when he caught sight of me.

He stopped in his tracks.

Come here, sweetie
, I signed, which was awkward with the cast on my arm.

But he merely stood there, staring at me as if trying to decide whether I was real. Bill and Mama stood behind him, Bill ready to grab him if he started to make a scene.

Please
? I signed.
Daddy wants to hold you
….

He walked forward slowly, stopped about two feet away, and reached out a hand to touch my chest. Then he touched my cast, his fingers very gentle and hesitant. His eyes welled with tears. I put my good arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. His body was stiff with fear. Eventually he put his head carefully on my chest and let himself be held, sobbing softly. I kissed the top of his head, stroked his hair. He keened a few times in the back of his throat, which sounded like a loud hum.

“Everything’s all right, sweetie,” I said as Mama and Bill watched.

“Hmmmmmmmm….”

“Hush now, baby.”

“Hmmmmmm….”

After a couple of minutes, he pulled away and wiped at his eyes, his eyes downcast as if he couldn’t bear to look at me. I put a finger under his jaw, lifted his face.

I’m sorry I scared you
, I signed.

Don’t do it again, you big doofus!

I won’t
, I promised, offering him a smile.

I don’t hate you.

I know, sweetie.

I’m sorry I said that, Daddy.

Don’t worry about it.

I don’t hate you.

I know.

I would never hate you.

It’s okay, sweetie. I need to lie down. Will you help me
?

He nodded.

“L
OOK
AT
you, Cousin Wiley!” Tina Summerall said, sweeping into my room later that day with a rush of her usual frenetic energy. “You look like someone done beat the living daylights out of you! Shelly told me not to visit and not to bother you, but you know how much I listen to Shelly!
Not
! How are you, Cousin Wiley?”

“Still not dead,” I said.

She offered a hearty laugh, would have been disappointed had I said anything else, since I always told her that.

Tina Summerall was Shelly’s sister, and far and away the black sheep of her family. She had cast off her Baptist roots and embraced her inner hedge witch, was heavily into Wicca, Druidism, tarot cards, and medicine cards, though she professed she could not abide the silliness of astrology. She had a generous frame that brought to mind words like “voluptuous” and “curves.” Emerging from her goth period, she now favored red, blonde, and pink highlights in her long, stringy
hair. Black T-shirts and jeans had recently given way to billowy, colorful sundresses and sandals. She was an earth goddess. My brother, Bill, though, referred to her rather unkindly as “that New Age swamp cunt.”

We were not real cousins, but we called each other that because it seemed only right that we should have been.

“I’m so sorry about your papaw,” she said. “Where’s that kid of yours?”

“I think he’s in the cafeteria with Mama.”

“I’m working something special for him to help him get through this. And make no mistake, it’s hard on the little ones, and they need special attention. But you know that.”

I did indeed.

“I’m burning a wishing candle for him. I chose the color red because he’s a passionate little fellow, just like his papa. It’s a thirty-six hour candle. That ought to do it, or at least help him get over the rough spots. You were in the news, by the way.”

“Was I?

“Oh, yes! The paper even mentioned
Crack Baby
. ‘Union County author pulled from the rubble.’ Or some such nonsense. And there was your mama’s house. And they ran a picture of your papaw. Told about him being in the war and all. They ran a bunch of photos on the tornado damage. The usual, you know. I’m burning a candle for him too, by the way—your papaw was an old soul, and he probably don’t need help from someone like me, but still, it’s best to do all you can do to help. I’ll bet him and the Goddess are having a good laugh right about now.”

Mama and Noah returned, followed shortly thereafter by Father Ginderbach.

Introductions were made.

“So you’re the priest Wiley’s always talking about, huh?” Tina said, offering him a frank gaze.

“If I’m not, I’m going to get in trouble for wearing this collar,” he replied easily.

“I was just telling Wiley that I’m doing a thirty-six hour candle for Noah.”

“Very good,” Ginderbach said.

“The Goddess doesn’t need to be reminded of our needs, but it doesn’t hurt,” she added.

“No, it doesn’t,” Ginderbach agreed. “And I’m sure Noah could use all the help from the Goddess he can get.”

“You’ll have to forgive Tina,” Mama said, a look of discomfort on her face.

“Why?” I asked. I knew why. I was offended that Mama felt the need to bring it up.

“Well, she’s….”

The words died on Mama’s lips.
She’s not one of us, Father. She’s a little strange. She worships “the Goddess.” She has an herb garden on her porch. She makes her own candles. She’s
….

“I’m a pagan, Father,” Tina announced.

“Ain’t we all?” Ginderbach said. “And we’re all in this together. Since you’re here, perhaps you’d like to help me with Wiley’s anointing?”

“Sure,” she said with an enthusiastic smile.

“I’m not dying,” I pointed out.

“Don’t be silly,” Mama said.

“I thought they didn’t anoint people unless they were afraid they were dying or something,” I said.

“We like to anoint the sick,” Ginderbach said. “Raise them up in prayer. I like to think that God is in charge and nothing I do is going to change her mind about things. But I think it helps people to know they’re being prayed for. If you’d prefer that we didn’t….”

“That’s fine,” I said.

“Of course it’s fine, you idiot,” Mama said. “Forgive my temper, Father. Wiley gets me so riled up sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I’ve heard kids do that to you,” he said.

“I do wish you’d talk some sense into him. He never listens to a word I say, but he’ll listen to you, Father. He doesn’t normally take to any of our priests, but he actually likes you, and I can’t remember the last time he liked one of our priests.”

“Father Michael feeling me up in the sixth grade sort of ruined it for me,” I admitted.

“That was a misunderstanding!” Mama snapped.

“Of course it was,” I replied. “And when he told me to get undressed and sit on his lap, the misunderstanding was built right in, but that didn’t stop him.”

“That never happened!” she shot back angrily. “Why must you embarrass me like this? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“If you’re going to badmouth me in front of the priest, at least he ought to hear the whole story.”

“I talked to Father Michael myself—”

“And he told you it never happened. Yes, Mama, I’ve heard that story over and over. It
never happened
. Got it! You’re like a broken record.”

Suddenly realizing we were airing dirty linen in front of company, I clamped my mouth shut. It had just come out, but Mama did that to me. She complained about how much I provoked her, but I had learned from the best.

What’s wrong
? Noah signed, frowning deeply.

Nothing
, I signed back.

Why are you mad?

I’m not mad.

You look mad.

I’m just… upset
.

Noah stood at the head of the bed, frowning down on me in his imperious, possessive way. He took hold of my good hand, the look in his eyes accusing me of keeping secrets and not being honest.

“I’m sorry,” I said, glancing at Tina and Father Ginderbach. “Don’t listen to us.”

“Is it true?” Father Ginderbach said.

I didn’t answer.

Of course it was true—that and a whole lot more besides. Mama could scarcely wrap her brain around the picture of me sitting on Father Michael’s lap, not to mention all the other things we had done.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“But I think it does,” Ginderbach replied. “If it’s true, I’m very sorry. No priest of God should ever harm a child.”

“Wiley exaggerates,” Mama said. “He’s always exaggerated. He’s a writer. What do you expect?”

“I’ve often found just the opposite,” Ginderbach countered. “Children don’t exaggerate about such things. I suspect there’s a lot more to it than Wiley is saying.”

They both looked at me, Mama fuming, smoke all but coming out of her ears because I had embarrassed her in front of her parish priest, but Father Ginderbach looked at me with a frank, tender look in his eyes, as if he understood completely.

I felt sudden tears rising up inside my chest that I didn’t want to cry. It was silly. All of that had happened so many years ago, and I had so much else to worry about, but suddenly, in that moment, thinking about Father Michael—someone I had loved, admired, had a crush on, someone who had filled the empty space in my soul left by Daddy’s death, someone I wanted to be like and respected, but who had convinced me it was okay to take off my clothes and “play games” with him, to “sit on his penis and learn what it was like to be a man”—suddenly, in that moment, all of that came rushing to the surface in a very painful, awkward way, and I started to cry.

“Daddy!” Noah exclaimed unhappily, patting my chest, trying to get my attention. “Hooooh! Daddy?”

Each time Noah banged my chest, sharp pains shot through it.

“Wiley, what is it?” Mama asked after a long minute, suddenly concerned. “You know you’re not supposed to be crying. You’re just upset about Papaw. We all are, sweetie.”

“Why can’t you ever listen to me, Mama?” I asked, feeling miserable and angry. “I know what happened because I was there. But you weren’t there, and you wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell you afterward, so don’t stand there now and say it never happened. How the hell would you know?”

“But—”

“Daddy!”

“If somebody ever did something like that to Noah, I’d go after that bastard and blow his fucking brains out. But you just stand there and say it never happened because you don’t want to know. Well, good for you! Every time I tell the truth, you tell me how awful I am. For once in your life, why can’t you listen to me?”

“Hooooh!” Noah moaned unhappily.

Mama looked like I had just slapped her. Her lips were moving, as if she meant to shoot off some choice remark, but she said nothing.

“Wiley,” she said at last, in a shaky, hesitant voice, “a priest is not going to…. A priest, Wiley! A priest is not going to… he’s not going to do something like that to a child. He just couldn’t.”

“But what if he does?” I asked.

“How could he? You tell me that. How could a man consecrated to God do things like…
that
… with a child? To even talk about such things is shameful! Priests and nuns devote themselves to God. They’re not perfect. I know that. But they’re not a bunch of perverts, not like you make them out to be. I refuse to believe—”

“Mrs. Cantrell, you would be surprised what some priests have done,” Father Ginderbach said gently. “Surprised, and very unhappy. As a lot of us are, including the Holy Father.”

“Wiley has always had a very active imagination. Even when he was a kid—”

“Mrs. Cantrell, with all due respect, there are times when we need to listen. When we need to hear what’s being said.”